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“The only poor friend of mine,” Dick remarked, “who has never borrowed money of me.”

Beaucourt went on without noticing this. “I have three expensive tastes,” he said. “I want to get into Parliament; I want to have a yacht; I want to collect pictures. Add, if you like, the selfish luxury of helping poverty and wretchedness, and hearing my conscience tell me what an excellent man I am. I can’t do all this on five hundred a year–but I can do it on forty times five hundred a year. Moral: marry Miss Dulane.”

Listening attentively until the other had done, Dick showed a sardonic side to his character never yet discovered in Beaucourt’s experience of him.

“I suppose you have made the necessary arrangements,” he said. “When the old lady releases you, she will leave consolation behind her in her will.”

“That’s the first ill-natured thing I ever heard you say, Dick. When the old lady dies, my sense of honor takes fright, and turns its back on her will. It’s a condition on my side, that every farthing of her money shall be left to her relations.”

“Don’t you call yourself one of them?”

“What a question! Am I her relation because the laws of society force a mock marriage on us? How can I make use of her money unless I am her husband? and how can she make use of my title unless she is my wife? As long as she lives I stand honestly by my side of the bargain. But when she dies the transaction is at an end, and the surviving partner returns to his five hundred a year.”

Dick exhibited another surprising side to his character. The most compliant of men now became as obstinate as the proverbial mule.

“All very well,” he said, “but it doesn’t explain why–if you must sell yourself–you have sold yourself to an old lady. There are plenty of young ones and pretty ones with fortunes to tempt you. It seems odd that you haven’t tried your luck with one of them.”

“No, Dick. It would have been odd, and worse than odd, if I had tried my luck with a young woman.”

“I don’t see that.”

“You shall see it directly. If I marry an old woman for her money, I have no occasion to be a hypocrite; we both know that our marriage is a mere matter of form. But if I make a young woman my wife because I want her money, and if that young woman happens to be worth a straw, I must deceive her and disgrace myself by shamming love. That, my boy, you may depend upon it, I will never do.”

Dick’s face suddenly brightened with a mingled expression of relief and triumph.

“Ha! my mercenary friend,” he burst out, “there’s something mixed up in this business which is worthier of you than anything I have heard yet. Stop! I’m going to be clever for the first time in my life. A man who talks of love as you do, must have felt love himself. Where is the young one and the pretty one? And what has she done, poor dear, to be deserted for an old woman? Good God! how you look at me! I have hurt your feelings–I have been a greater fool than ever–I am more ashamed of myself than words can say!”

Beaucourt stopped him there, gently and firmly.

“You have made a very natural mistake,” he said. “There was a young lady. She has refused me–absolutely refused me. There is no more love in my life. It’s a dark life and an empty life for the rest of my days. I must see what money can do for me next. When I have thoroughly hardened my heart I may not feel my misfortune as I feel it now. Pity me or despise me. In either case let us say goodnight.”

He went out into the hall and took his hat. Dick went out into the hall and took his hat.